The Way Home

“I can imagine.”

She looked down again. “Listen, why don’t you just go home and get some rest? You’ve been through enough tonight. Just forget about the date, okay?”

Cal frowned and studied her profile: smooth forehead, finely shaped nose, firm chin, the slender sweep of her neck. At the moment she looked more like a fragile and vulnerable woman than a brash reporter. An unexpected surge of protectiveness swept over him, and his frown deepened. Now what was that all about? He didn’t even like Amy Winter! And she’d just let him off the hook, released him from the obligation to go on the date he’d been dreading. This was his chance to make a quick exit. Except, strangely enough, he suddenly didn’t want to leave.

When the silence lengthened, Amy glanced up cautiously and tried to smile. “Are you still here? I thought you’d be out the door in three seconds after that reprieve.”

So had he. Why was he still sitting here? For a man who spent his days finding answers to difficult questions, this one left him stumped. Maybe it was simply his sense of fairness, he rationalized. After all, she’d paid good money for this evening, and he owed her dinner. That was certainly the easy answer—even if he had the uncomfortable feeling it wasn’t the right one. But now was not the time to analyze his motivation for wanting to stay. He could think about that later. In fact, he would think about it later—whether he wanted to or not, he realized ruefully. And he had a feeling that the answer was going to be a whole lot more complicated than simple fairness. Still, it was a good enough response to Amy’s question.

“I owe you dinner. And I pay my debts.”

She hesitated. Then, with a little shrug, she capitulated. “We could at least make it another night, if you’d prefer.”

“Like I said, as long as you don’t mind having an escort who attracts attention, I’m game.”

With or without the black eye, Cal Richards would attract attention, Amy thought. Tall, distinguished, handsome—he’d turn women’s heads in any room he entered. If he thought the black eye was the only reason he’d be noticed, he was either slow or totally without vanity. And she knew it wasn’t the former. The fact that it must be the latter was refreshing. In her world, appearance—for both men and women—was at least as important as skill and often received far more attention. To discover someone who seemed totally unaware of his appeal was a rare—and pleasant—occurrence.

“I’m used to attention,” she hedged.

“I’m sure you are. Even Mitch recognized you. I imagine that gets old.”

She shrugged. “Not yet. It’s still kind of fun, most of the time.”

Cal shook his head. “Well, to each his own. Personally I prefer anonymity.”

“Then maybe we should cancel tonight. Because between the two of us, I guarantee we’re going to attract attention.”

He frowned. “Well, I have an idea, although it’s not much of a date for five hundred dollars,” he said slowly.

“What?”

“Let’s have dinner here.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Amy hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay.” She took a quick mental inventory of her freezer. “I think I have a couple of frozen microwave dinners. And I might have a—”

“Whoa!” He held up his hands. “I wasn’t asking you to supply the food.”

She frowned. “Then what did you have in mind? Pizza?”

He grinned. “Hardly. Will you trust me on this?”

She shrugged. “Why not? Nothing else tonight has turned out the way I expected.”

“Look at the bright side. The evening has to get better, because it can’t get any worse.”

Amy had to admit that he was being an awfully good sport about the whole thing, and she smiled in return. “Too true.”

“I’ll just need to use your phone again.”

“Okay. I’ll set the table.”

“We’ll salvage this evening yet,” he promised with an engaging grin as he reached for the phone.

As Amy got out plates and silverware, she glanced once or twice toward Cal. He was mostly turned away from her, but she caught a glimpse of his strong profile now and then. He wasn’t exactly handsome in the classic sense, but there was something about his face, some compelling quality—call it “character” for lack of a better term—that touched her. It was odd, really. In an evening full of surprises, this was the most surprising of all—the discovery that she was actually starting to like Cal Richards. It didn’t make any sense, of course. She was still convinced they were polar opposites in many ways, not to mention at odds professionally. Nevertheless she had a strange feeling that somewhere deep inside, at some core level, they were more alike than either had suspected. It was an intriguing, unsettling and surprising thought.

But the surprises for the evening weren’t over yet, it seemed. When she returned to the living room, Cal had put on one of her favorite jazz CDs.

“I like your taste in music,” he commented.

“Thanks.”

“Dinner will be here shortly.”

“Can I ask what we’re having?”

He grinned. “I think I’ll surprise you.”

She tilted her head, a small smile lifting her lips. “I like surprises.”

“Really? I’ll have to remember that.”

She started to say “Why?” then caught herself. It was just a meaningless remark. After tonight, the only time their paths would cross would be in the courtroom, she reminded herself, surprised at the sudden slump in her spirits. She forced herself to focus on the present, reminding herself she had a job to do tonight. That was what this evening was all about after all. With an effort she smiled. “Would you like something to drink?”

“That would be great.”

“Would you like a soft drink, or something stronger?”

“Do you have any wine?”

Amy bit her lip. She was pretty sure she had some wine left from a gathering she’d had at Christmas-time. “I think so.”

“It’s not something I indulge in often, but I could use a glass tonight.”

Amy returned to the kitchen and rummaged around in the refrigerator, triumphantly withdrawing a bottle of merlot. She had just enough for two glasses, which she carried back to the living room, handing one to Cal.

He waited until she was seated, then lifted his glass. “May the rest of the evening be better,” he said.

She raised her glass. “I’ll second that.”

Amy wasn’t sure if it was the toast or the wine or just the fact that they both seemed to let their guard down, but from that moment on, the evening took a decided turn for the better.

By the time they’d finished their wine, dinner arrived, and it was like no “carryout” Amy had ever seen. It came via courier—two gourmet dinners from one of the city’s finest restaurants, on china plates inside domed food warmers, complete with salad and a chocolate dessert to die for.

Amy could only stare in awe as Cal arranged the food on the table, shaking her head in wonder the whole time. “Well, if you can’t go to the restaurant, bring the restaurant to you,” she murmured finally. “I’m impressed. You must have good connections to get this kind of treatment. I didn’t think ‘carryout’ was even in their vocabulary.”